


heavy is the crown (but only for the weak)

by danykindaforgot



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, For now it's just smut :), Jon as the Night King, Might add more tags if I decide to continue this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25011169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danykindaforgot/pseuds/danykindaforgot
Summary: If there was one thing Daenerys hated about Jon, it was his selflessness. His heroic tendencies. The ones she always knew would one day get him killed. So, when he made the disturbing decision to sacrifice himself for the realm, for his family, for the innocents, forher, it did not come as a surprise to her or to anyone else who knew him and knew what a brave man he was.But Daenerys was not Jon.She was selfish.Songs about her lover and his heroism that saved the world were not enough for her; she wanted him back.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 25
Kudos: 130





	heavy is the crown (but only for the weak)

Jon had always told her he liked the cold, that he was unphased by it, but _this,_ this was different. She was trembling like a leaf being swept by the winds of a turbulent hurricane, despite being covered in multiple layers of fur meant to warm her up. Every exhale of hers fanned before her eyes in a snowy wave of air. She had to keep flexing her fingers, afraid if she did not keep moving in some way or the other, she would freeze to death in this terrible, dull place.

The ice cracked beneath her footsteps, and she hoped it was enough to get his attention.

It was.

He had a Throne, ironically enough, made of spikes of ice. Jon, _her_ Jon, used to find it weird how everyone wanted that damned Throne so badly. “I don’t get the appeal of it,” he’d told her one night, on that boat, many a year ago now. “Why do you desire it so badly, Daenerys?”

“The throne?” she asked, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his frowning mouth. “I do not _desire_ it. But it is my duty to rid the world of tyrants who do not deserve to sit on it, much less rule over Westeros with the power it holds.”

He had understood what she meant, of course he did—he understood everything about her, but he still laughed and told her he would _never_ want to sit upon something so uncomfortable.

Now he sat on a much more uncomfortable-looking one.

“It’s cold up here for a Southern girl,” he told her as he watched her approach, his voice amused but still calculated.

Her Jon was not a man of many jokes. Nor many words, really. But this… _thing_ was often witty and sarcastic, but his words never humoured her. He chilled her to the very core. His skin was so pale it looked like ice and ash mixed together. The undersides of his eyes were black, as if he had not slept a blink for the past five years. Maybe he didn’t. He was scary, but still Jon. He looked like Jon— _felt_ like Jon. She hated him for it.

Daenerys stopped a few feet in front of him. She was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms—she was not used to being looked down upon. But it was always like this with him. He always took a moment to come down, as if he enjoyed making her feel small and helpless, while he was up there, all too powerful and knowing. “You don’t want me to keep you warm?” he said, pouting, repeating the words he’d once uttered to her, when they were happy and in love and _hopeful._

Hope.

It was something she had not felt in a very long while now.

“Enough,” she spat out, eyes ablaze.

His smile was crooked, _evil,_ and as he came down to her, he carried a coldness that seeped through her pores and coiled around her veins, threatening to extinguish the fire that resided within her. Her lips were dry, her fingers ached to be dipped into something hot so they would no longer hurt. Once she was out of here, she would seriously consider asking Drogon to bathe her in fire.

Daenerys resisted the urge to recoil as he stepped closer to her, his grey eyes—once dark, now so pale and cold—sweeping over her, from head to toe and head again. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered, his icy breath fanning over her cheek, making her cringe.

In moments like this, Daenerys realised how much she truly loved him—because her foolish heart was still willing to believe the words this monster spoke, just because they came from the mouth of the man she loved. Her heart clenched around the words he spoke to her, and her soul drank from it, from the lies he fed her. The lies she starved for. “You don’t feel anything,” she forced herself to say, her voice dull.

“Of course, I do not. But I believe this is what you want to hear, isn’t it? That I miss you so much it drives me insane?” His voice was taunting now. He liked toying with her pain. “But, Daenerys, you know there is some truth to it. I am _still_ a man, deep down. Very, very deep down. Something of a man, really, but one who has desires…and lust.” His hand cupped her cheek then and she gasped, from the cold, from the fear, from the disturbing sense of love she still felt for him. “I miss your sweet cunt, I miss being buried so deep in you no one could tell where one starts or the other ends.”

She closed her eyes, knowing where this was heading.

_No._

Not this time.

“Bran…he said you—you invade his visions again,” she stammered out, hating herself for how weak she sounded. “We made a _pact._ Jon sacrificed himself for it—”

“I am Jon,” he reminded her, grinning.

She glared at his unflinching eyes. “You know what I mean. You’re not meant to return or to torment us any longer. You are not meant to come back and—”

“Tsk tsk tsk,” he cut her off, clicking his tongue, “ _You_ came back to _me,_ Daenerys. Not the other way round.”

Dany’s lips parted silently.

Gods. He was right.

Selfishly, unconsciously, she’d awaken the monster they’d defeated. For her own needs. Because unlike them—unlike Arya, Sansa, Bran, Tyrion, the whole _fucking_ world, she could not move on. Their goodbye kiss was not enough. The last words they spoke to each other were not enough. The promise he made to always keep her safe was not enough. To everyone else, it was. But to her, nothing _but_ Jon would ever be enough.

Jon—the Night King, whatever he was now—laughed. As if reading her thoughts. His laughter shook the icy walls around them and had her screwing her eyes shut. “You haven’t told them, have you?” he realised, amused, delighted by his discovery. “You have not told Bran, Tyrion or anyone else how on a lonely night, you got on your dragon and flew here…desperate for your _lover?_ You did not tell them how it was not only once, but time and time again…” Suddenly, he was behind her, but she felt him all around her. In her. “You haven’t told them what a shameful, disgusting, _pathetic_ Queen you are, begging me to fuck you. Just because you miss _him._ ” He reached across and wrapped a hand around her throat, forcing her head to press against his chest, her whole back was flush against his front. She shivered. “Oh no. You have not told a soul of your selfish ways, have you, Daenerys Targaryen? If you did, what would they think? They think of you as some kind of Goddess. The fearless Mother of Dragons. _Mhysa._ Breaker of Chains.” Her titles sounded vile coming from his lips. “But really, none of that really satisfies you—because none of that compares to how I _still_ make you feel.”

“Stop it,” she whispered, her voice feeble.

He nosed at her neck, inhaling her. Shame and disgust filled her because he was right. Heat bloomed between her thighs, as it always did. “So, tell me, _Your Grace_ —” Once again, there was nothing but mockery in his voice. Belittlement. “—Did you come here to voice out your concerns that I will raise the dead and march to kill all of you, or are you here to be fucked like a whore?”

“I—” Her voice broke as his fingers slid down her neck, down her throat, slowing at her jumping pulse as they continued a journey downwards, slipping past the heavy coat she wore. Her breath caught in her throat as a cold palm wrapped around her right breast, her skin hot and her blood pulsing. Daenerys _moaned_ as he rolled a taut nipple between his thumb and forefinger, his chuckle dark against her ear. “I did not come here for _this,_ ” she managed to choke out but leaned into his touch, her teats aching to be fondled by him. Oh, perhaps he could use his mouth, swirl his tongue around the— _no._ “I am married now.”

She did not know why she said those words, or why she twisted in his arms to observe his expression.

Was she expecting to see anger in there? Jealousy?

_No,_ a small voice told her, _you’re just hoping to see a sign of Jon in there._

But she got nothing of the sorts. His hard, stoic features did not flicker, did not change. His mouth twisted. “Married,” he repeated, and it still came in that Northern burr that was so very distinctively Jon’s it made her heart hurt, “And still coming here to be fucked by your dead lover. You are more pathetic than I could’ve thought, Daenerys.”

And then he was kissing her.

His kisses were no longer warm and loving. They _hurt_ her. He devoured her mouth, uncaring for how brutal he was, uncaring for the bruises he would leave. He bit down on her lower lip and drew blood from it. She groaned in both pain and pleasure as he lapped at the droplets of the red liquid like a starved wolf.

It was insane to do this, so _wrong,_ but none of it was enough to stop her. It wasn’t the first time either—the first time, she did feel guilt and shame and disgust. She went home and drew a bath to rid herself of every trace of him and swore she would never do such a monstrous thing again.

But she _was_ selfish.

They did it—over and over again.

And he was right. He never came to her. It was always her who flew to him, to beg for crumbs of love that he was willing to give. It didn’t matter what _he_ really was, all that mattered was that he resembled her lover, spoke like him, felt like him when he filled her up with his seed, and she could live with that. The phantom of the man she’d loved.

Sickeningly enough, she would rather have this than nothing at all.

It was only when he was deep inside her, human or not, alive or not, that she truly _felt._ She felt pain and anger and lust and love and hate. Nothing else made her feel. Everybody else moved on. Sansa as Warden of the North with her siblings, safe and sound in their home, knowing their brother had sacrificed himself for the greater good. Tyrion, still her Hand, grateful for Jon’s sacrifice as well, now busy helping her rebuild Westeros into a better place.

But her reign was meaningless without Jon.

“What do you wish for tonight, my Queen? My tongue?” He licked a trail of ice from the top of her breasts up to her earlobe, which he twisted in his mouth as she hissed in response. “Or my cock?”

“ _Fuck._ I need you to fuck me,” she found herself begging.

They stumbled to the Throne— _his_ Throne. His mouth was on her breasts, hands fiddling with the laces of her dress and coat. He hummed against her skin, “Tell me about this husband of yours.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“He is none of your concerns.”

“Oh, but I bet I am one of his.” He ripped the front of her dress and Daenerys wondered where the cold went. They were still atop a mountain, so far North no one would be stupid enough to journey here because of the temperature and because of him, but right then, she was burning. His eyes were pitch black, proving that he was still a man somewhere—that she still affected him, or the notion of sex did. It was all very confusing.

But he still fucked like a man, perhaps more violent than Jon, but he made her come just as well as Jon used to. “I cannot imagine what the poor man would think if he could see you right now.” He tore the rest of her dress, straight down the middle, and there she was, naked on top of his throne. His mouth left feather-light kisses between her breasts, down to her aching cunt. “How wet you are for your old lover, who isn’t truly alive anymore, who is a _monster,_ as you put it yourself.” He teased her entrance, traced his fingers up and down her swollen lips.

The silver-haired Queen leaned her head back and sighed raggedly. “Do you get this wet for him, hm?” he questioned, voice raspy.

“Please,” she begged, needing him to stop talking.

“Tell me,” he ordered, spreading her thighs apart. It was filthy and vulgar, how he opened her for him. How he leaned down and blew on her cunt, teasing her, nudging his nose against her clit to inhale her scent as she writhed above him. “Tell me who gets you this wet, Daenerys. You’re in my Kingdom here, I order _you._ Use your pretty mouth to tell me what a whore you are, or—”

“Just you,” she sobbed, angry at herself, delirious with lust, “Only you get me this wet. I want you to fuck me. No one else.”

“Good girl,” he praised her, pressing a kiss to her swollen clit before standing up.

She was in a daze as he joined her, naked, on the Throne. He sat her on his lap, his cock entering her easily as she sank down on him. She mewled in pleasure. _Nothing compares to this,_ she thought, the shame and guilt easing away. There was only desire now—hot and dark.

“Ride my cock, Daenerys,” he grunted, hands gripping her hips, guiding her, synchronising their thrusts. “Ride me like the filthy whore you are.”

A moan escaped her, his filthy, degrading words driving her mad. Her walls clenched around his thick length and her mouth fell open each time he filled her to the hilt, _completing_ her, destroying her.

“Are you gonna come for me?” he grunted, “Are you going to let me fill you up? Like the good old days?”

She moaned and increased her pace, bouncing up and down his hard cock, grinding herself down on him, pleasure blooming between her thighs—

“Give it all to me, Dany.”

Something inside her broke.

It was more than just an orgasm.

Her eyes flew open, wide, as she came.

He held her shaking body, planted kisses on her neck and bit on her shoulder as he emptied his seed deep inside her cunt. There was so much of it, it spilled down her thighs. His thrusts grew shallow as he buried his face between her breasts.

Tears streamed down her face. Her heart was in her throat.

“Dany,” she whispered.

He lifted his face from her chest, cold eyes observing her face. “What?” he asked dully.

“You called me _Dany,_ ” she said quietly, eyes searching his.

It was still Jon. It had to be.

“Say it again,” she begged, “ _Please_.”

His cold smile was back, and it shattered what remained of her heart. “You should go, Daenerys,” he told her, his limp cock still inside of her, “before they find out about your dirty little secret.”

“I know you’re still _you_ somewhere in there,” she continued, her eyes watering again. She just wished to see Jon’s warm, caring eyes once more. “Don’t you want to know about _her_?”

He knew what she was talking about. For a second, she saw something shift in his eyes. But before she could catch it and examine it, it was gone, replaced by a thick barrier of ice. She winced at the look. “You should go,” he repeated, voice low and guttural.

Her throat clogged up with emotions. This was not a request—it was a threat.

She was quick to leave after that, miserable and cold, and she promised herself that this time was the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> Might continue this if I feel like it. Feedback is always appreciated :)


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